


Six Months

by Phoenixflames12



Series: An Endless Night: Extended Scenes [16]
Category: Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M, Gotham's Writing Workshop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 12:43:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15389013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixflames12/pseuds/Phoenixflames12
Summary: November, 1940Six months after the surrender at St Valery- en- Caux, Captain Jamie Fraser returns to his men after a period of time in the punishment bunker.





	Six Months

**Author's Note:**

> The angst fairy has sprinkled her fairy dust upon me once again and thus this has found its' way into the world.

November 1940

 

Six months.

 

Six months since the surrender.

 

Six months since the company had been frogmarched out of the tiny village of St Valery-en-Caux, little more than a ragged collection of ruined houses after nine months of fighting and forced into the blur of pain that was the march to the camp.

 

Six months since they had been forced into the huts, riddled with woodworm and rot, their feet blackened and bloody ribbons on which they could barely stand.

 

He had tried to comfort them.

 

Had held heads and pressed rough, shivering, claw-like hands between his own, murmuring a prayer of comfort that only gave his heart a spark of hope.

 

Boys little older than Faith or Brianna had greeted for their maithairs in his arms as he had held their heads tightly against his chest and ran shaking hands over their shoulders, trying to soothe them in the quiet way that he vaguely remembers his own Da soothing horses when he was a wean.

 

_‘It’ll be alright, man. Hush your greetin, now. You’re alive.’_

_And wide, bleary, disbelieving eyes blinded with silver had blinked up at him; lips trembling, smut stained face crumbling into the crook of his shoulder once more._

Another agonising jet of water pulses through the cell, but he is too weak to dodge it.

 

_How long has it been?_

 

He lets it come, bending his head to the impact, biting his lips down on a moan, frigid fingers groping, clutching, falling away into nothingness. The stiff fingers in his right hand are knotted past endurance, the ache of them almost worse than the shivers that judder and shake without mercy through his chest.

 

_Six months._

_What would have happened in these six months since he his last letter, written between shivering fingers in the desperate, pulsing silence as the guns fell silent all around them?_

_William, the bairn that he had left at Claire’s breast, the bright blue eyes of babyhood slowly changing to the deep, rich tawny that he shared with his mother, would be three now._

_Three years old and walking now he hopes, clutching the scruff of Bran’s neck as he hauls himself up onto his feet, babbling away to Claire in the great, comforting stillness of Lallybroch’s kitchen._

_Six months._

_Brianna would have celebrated her tenth birthday in October. A fiery little thing she was, always questioning, always racing ahead with her eyes that spoke to him so much of her grandmother, the snub of her nose, the fiery explosion of plaits that could never remain tied._

_Six months._

_Faith. Faith would be eleven now, the one out of all of his children that reminded him of Claire. Faith, their miracle child; a bonny, canty bit of a thing, blue eyes blazing from her spectacles as she spelt out a difficult word for him from whatever she was reading._

Against the soaked darkness of the cell, his vertebrae convulse against the remnants of his uniform and he exhales, a sigh caught in a sob landing wet and chilled against the bare stone floor.

 

* * *

 

‘Wake up, man!’

 

He comes to consciousness slowly, the roughness of the wood pressed against his cheek and the chill of damp, bare skin shivering under a rough, homespun blanket bringing sleep and wakefulness together for a jarring moment.

 

They had stripped him then.

 

The weight of a hand reaches out of the darkness and cups his cheek, fingers lingering tentatively against the rasp of the stubble that caresses his chin.

 

Something hard and rough pressed against swollen bleeding lips, scalding warmth dribbling against his mouth.

 

‘ _I canna… ‘_

The words are a whisper and he doesn’t know whether he’s said them at all, neck cricking with a bolt of agony as he turns his head away.

 

He won’t drink.

 

Every inch of him rebels against the idea, the memory of near drowning under the weight of the water rising fresh and raw behind his eyes.

 

‘Ye must, sir. Please. It’s only tea… They let us… ‘

 

The words are a tremulous, fearful whisper, breathed against his ear.

 

_I canna._

_I’ve had enough._

_I’ve seen enough._

_L… Leave me…Let me be._

 

‘That ye do, captain.’

 

The weight of a stronger hand, old and worn with years of care grips his shoulder, the voice ringing with the firm matter-of-factness that came from all army commanders, regardless of their subordinates’ wishes.

 

He knows that he can’t argue, especially not with Major-General Fortune. Even in this dank, dark shithole of a place, army rules were army rules and were not to be trifled with.

 

The General’s hand cups his head, holding him as his body sags into a sitting position, each breath a bloody, tearing rasp against his lungs.

 

He feels like a bairn again, every inch of him shaking with the memories of those convulsive shudders, cocooned in the warmth of the older mans’ embrace as a ragged blanket is pulled over his shoulders.

 

‘That’s it, Fraser,’ he hears Fortune’s voice, gentle, coaxing, somewhere near his ear, the tickle of a moustache prickling against his neck.

 

The muscles in his neck tremble with the strain of keeping his head up as he dutifully takes a sip of the tea, wanting nothing more than to let his head fall back and allow the pain to lull him into the sweet nothingness of oblivion.

 

‘A bit more, aye? Can ye manage that?’

 

_No, Sir._

_I canna._

_Let me be._

_Please, please just let me be._

The cup of cold tea is pressed against his lips once more, but he turns his head away, choking back the desperate, broken sob that lies there.

 

 It disappears without comment and his mind slips again, desperate to surrender to the waiting darkness, no matter his need to keep it. 

A cold, aching draft blows in from the open window, high against the wooden slats of the hut, a sliver of tattered moonlight burning against half closed eyes.

 

The General shifts again, the broad chest expanding against Jamie’s ear and he’s speaking, rough, loud words grating in the silence.

 

Painfully, he tries to lift his head, discern what’s amiss, but Fortune presses it down firmly against his lap.

 

And then a small, frightened whimper of indrawn breath as a hand reaches for his; fingers reaching, clutching, pressing against his palm.

 

‘ _Ciamar a tha thu,_ Jamie?’

 

Joe.

 

Joe who should have remained at home with Kirsty and his bairns, minding the farm, tending the land, keeping the peace.

 

Little Joe, who was the youngest and smallest of all of the cousins, despite being a good three months older than Jamie.

 

 Joe who had followed him, Ian, Jenny and Willie on their romps through the moors and, later, into Broch Mordha like a loyal dog, bloodying his knuckles in his first fist fight against one of the farmers’ boys from the hill crofts and had come home with a broken nose and a split lip for his trouble.

 

Joe who should never have been a soldier, who would die blinded and broken in the darkness of a winter’s night, with only a whispered eulogy to guide his soul back to Scotland.

 

The hand squeezes his in silent question and the General’s bulk moves slowly, his breathing slowly evening out into sleep; the large, weathered hand resting easily against the shorn curve of his scalp.

 

‘I…’ Words feel strange in his mouth after that agony of silent waiting.

 

‘I am all right, Joe,’ he murmurs, the words slow in the silence, wincing as the blood from his tattered lungs bubbles up against his tongue.

 

The hand squeezes his slowly in silent recognition and as the fog brought on by pain and exhaustion slowly pulls him under, Jamie finds that he could be grateful.  

 

* * *

_**Fin** _

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to read and review!
> 
> Comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!
> 
> Much love and enjoy x


End file.
